


Burns

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Marijuana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 08:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16573214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: David likes finding ways to help Frank.





	Burns

The thing was, Frank liked to pretend that he was beyond pain. Frank liked to act like the old wounds no longer hurt, like the migraines didn’t happen, like he was really, truly carved from stone, impervious to all but time.

David knew exactly how much pain Frank was in. David had made it his business, after the first few days of their established partnership, to read up on the details of a penetrating brain injury. The survival statistics alone put him off for a long time, but he steeled himself and forced himself to read in detail, article after article, the grim facts.

What he discovered was, Frank was a damn good actor. Finding his tells was hard, and David was distracted often by Frank actively getting himself new injuries, and everything that came with that -- the bickering, the snapping, the knee-jerk violence. Frank didn’t want to be looked after, didn’t want to be _babied_ , and _god_ help you if he thought you pitied him.

It was a long time before he got Frank to really accept help from him. Getting him to understand that David had no ulterior motive, that he was acting out of a desire to help Frank, not get close to hurt him, took forever. The horror show at Gunner’s cabin went a long way toward convincing him, though, and David worked patiently to foster that trust. Obviously it worked, because even pissed at him, even ready to end their partnership after whatever the fuck had happened in that hotel -- Frank never talks about it, after, and David understands well enough that some stories just aren’t for him to hear -- Frank still lets him in close enough to start stitching him up.

The memory of Frank in Madani’s bedroom, putting himself carefully back together after they saved him from drowning in his own blood; the memory of Frank dragging on those heavy, beat up boots onto his feet only barely recovered from a near-death experience made David’s blood pressure go up. He started to get angry, remembering -- he’d only just gotten Frank to start accepting his help, letting him shoulder some of the pain so Frank didn’t get crushed under it. But because Madani was there, her parents always hovering nearby, Frank had gone right back into the tough-guy bullshit. It’s nobody’s fault, not really, or at least, not anyone available to face punishment for it, so David had been forced to just stew in his own anger over it.

Months later, things are better. Frank has a little place in the city. The walls are thin and the lighting is downright depressing and David hates the thought of all the nights Frank spends here alone. He could could afford a nicer place, David knew -- he’d given him the money after all. Frank worried too much about the nebulous needs of the future to treat himself in the present.

Which is really why David had expected talking Frank into this would be harder. He knew Frank was probably the last person to try passing moral judgement on him but he also couldn’t shake the thought that Frank would disapprove.

For once, David hadn’t had any idea what to say. David was good at talking, at persuading, but what exactly was he supposed to say? ‘ _Hey Frank, I know you’re hurting, let’s get high? I do it all the time_.’

Yeah, that hadn’t exactly seemed wise.

“Are you gonna pass that, or let it burn out in your hand, Lieberman?”

As it had turned out, Frank had absolutely no reservations about sharing David’s meds when those meds were smokable. This man, who would often refuse a fucking  _Tylenol_ on a bad day -- a day when David could see the migraine seething behind his eyes, when he stumbled in and sat down just a little too heavy, body overworked, skin torn, head splitting. This man had eyed the joint David had wordlessly placed on the table between them, then looked at David and said, flatly, “You know you rolled that too tight, right?”

David had laughed, because honestly, what else _could_ he do?

Watching Frank now, David sits back, smiling faintly at the subtle way Frank’s face relaxes when he enjoys something. David didn’t have a strong opinion one way or the other about the taste of weed, but Frank, it turns out, really likes it. David likes watching the way Frank works the smoke around his mouth, savoring it before he exhales.

They had a routine, now. Rules, because Frank liked rules.

No smoking at David’s house. No leaving the apartment while they were high -- that one was David’s rule, because he knew himself and he really didn’t need the temptation to spend a bunch of money on nice food he’d barely remember eating later. They could, however, order delivery. No work-talk while stoned, no serious arguments.

Sitting on the busted-up club chair Frank had gotten from some thrift shop -- or, possibly, picked out of a neighbor's trash, because _god_ it was broken in -- David fiddles with his phone and watches Frank smoke from his peripheral. Frank’s little apartment was just barely big enough to meet the legal definition of an apartment in NYC. Aside from the bathroom (tiny, cramped, with a suspicious lingering dankness that David didn’t like) and the nook Frank generously called a kitchen, it barely had space for all Frank’s furniture.

Which said a lot, given that all he had was the one chair, a bed (decently sized, at least), and a rickety card table with two stools sat by it where he ate. It would be a depressing place, honestly, were it not for the little signs here and there that Frank was actually putting down roots here.

Books on a shelf Frank had installed on the wall. The bed, neatly made, with sheets and a quilt. A _quilt_ , couldn’t get much homier than that. Little signs, here and there around the place, that Frank was settling, giving himself a chance to live the life he’d regained.

Frank swats David’s shoulder and passes him the joint back. “How is that comfortable?” he asks, gesturing at the way David has sprawled himself across the arms of the chair, back curving over one end. David examines the remains of the joint -- smoked down pretty far, but not ready to be called a roach, he judged -- and shrugged one shoulder at Frank.

But he sits up, after a moment, because he knows the subtleties of Frank’s language and understands what he wants most of the time. The chair is no more comfortable in this position, might, in fact, be _less_ comfortable, but it has the benefit of his being able to look at Frank straight on. And when Frank smiles in that way, easy and lazy and open, David would put up with pretty much any discomfort to get to see it.

David exhales a little noise that’s like a laugh but not quite, perhaps leaning more toward a sigh. When they’d first started doing this, Frank had made the rule that only one of them could smoke, the other needing to remain sober and keep watch over the inebriated. David had talked him out of that quickly enough, so he doesn’t hesitate to take another quick puff off the joint, holding it away as he exhales, watching the way Frank watches the smoke. Frank’s kind of adorable when he starts getting high, when it’s just tickling at him.

All that hypervigilance has to go somewhere, David supposes. Frank fixates on just about anything that moves, but relaxes, easing into the idea that he’s safe. That’s what David likes about getting high, the way it takes his chaotic thoughts and sorts them, muffles them. Nothing seems so urgent, so worthy of his anxiety. The high gives him permission to relax, facilitates the ability to be calm.

Once, he’d thought that kind of thing was stoner bullshit. He’d smoked because getting high was fun and it was more conducive to his college lifestyle than binge drinking. But after his stint as a dead man, after the fear and the blood and the maelstrom of emotion, he’d futzed around about therapy for a while before his doctor had quietly, as if trying not to disturb whatever delicate sensibilities she’d assumed he had, suggested he try marijuana.

Legal weed was great, and it gave him an excuse to continue to avoid going to talk to some stranger about what it had been like, living in hiding, sharing space with Frank Castle. How could he trust a therapist with any of that? He could hardly bring himself to talk about it in generalizations and vague descriptions that glossed over whole weeks of time.

Frank, sitting quiet and still on the edge of his bed, hands clasped between his knees, gave a soft, considering noise as David exhaled a second hit, and David tried not to squirm when he realized that dark gaze was focused not on the smoke, but on his parted lips.

He thinks about trying to say something funny, about making some wiseass comment or another, but almost immediately forgets whatever it was that had occurred to him to say. Frank says, “I smoked a lot when I was a kid. Before enlisting. Like, way young, younger ‘n I should’ve been. I swear it took a lot more to get high back then. How’s that even work? Twice the size and it takes half the weed…”

David snorts, giggles really, and watches Frank lay back, legs still hanging over the edge of the bed but back flat on the mattress, arms sprawled loose and relaxed to either end of the bed. “It’s stronger stuff. Like, it’s intentional. Make it stretch more, you know?”

“Don’t roll it if you can’t smoke it.”

Looking at the remains of the joint, David raised his eyebrows. Frank had smoked quite a bit, but he knew his tolerance better than David. “You saying you want more?”

Immediately Frank raises an arm, hand open for the joint. David stands up and moves over to the bed rather than just handing it over; he looks down at Frank and Frank looks back at him, both of them still for a moment before Frank lets his head fall back again.

Permission granted.

David still approaches carefully. Frank could be grabby sometimes, and David has a burning hot joint in his hand; immolating them in bed is not what he’s about. He climbs up and straddles Frank’s hips, curling over him to put the joint between his lips; lips that part for him willingly while that raised hand lowers to settle on his wrist.

That big, broad hand wanders up when David tries to sit up, holding him, and when he pulls the joint away Frank exhales a cloud of smoke slowly, pointedly, into David’s face. He could hold his breath, wait for it to dissipate, but he inhales instead. Because he knows how to read Frank now, most of the time, and he likes giving Frank what Frank wants, when he can.

“You know that doesn’t, uh, that doesn’t work, right?” He says, remaining curled into Frank’s space despite the way his back is cramping. “Shotgunning? It doesn’t work.”

The smile that curls Frank’s lips is lazy and fond, and David kind of hates the way his heart beats a little harder at the sight. The kind of giddy, googly-eyed delight he takes from this man is utterly inappropriate, but it’s honest.

“It’s just an excuse to make out while you’re getting high.”

“Is that what it is?” Frank’s hand on David’s neck is so heavy, perfectly weighted, and honestly David should have realized he’d set himself up for this when he decided to climb on top of Frank, but he’s admittedly not thinking the clearest right now, and so it makes him feel giddy, the way Frank can just drag him down, slow and without any real force.

This position is not really comfortable, David doubled over with one arm stretched out to the side to keep the joint away from any potential burns, his knees digging into the mattress, his free hand curled around Frank’s shoulder, but David thinks he can just about deal with the discomfort because the way Frank kisses him, like he’s the absolute only thing on Frank’s mind, is so good David’s toes curl. Like a fucking cliche.

Sober, kisses between them are often quick things, and when they’re not, there’s an edge of something close to violence in them, Frank trying to make a point, both of them harried by some stress or another.

Like this though, Frank takes his time. Frank moves like nothing in the world could come between them, like they have all the time in the world. Frank kisses him like he’s been thinking about it all day and now that he has the opportunity, he’s going to get his money’s worth. With his hand cupping the back of David’s head and his lips against David’s he could probably keep David frozen indefinitely. Certainly David’s not going to be the one to break this.

Frank likes to act like he’s beyond his own pain, but like this, given a way to put the pain aside, to move without it for a while, he becomes someone more patient, more willing to go slowly. David likes that, David likes being able to help him get there. It helps David to feel less helpless about Frank’s suffering, helps him to feel more like he _does_ something for this man who has done so much for him.

“Put that thing out and come lay down,” Frank drawls, his voice a lazy rumble as he pushes David to sit back upright. “We can order food later.”

“You not hungry?” David asks, standing and turning to tap the ash and make sure the joint is fully out. He doesn’t shout when Frank gropes his ass, but it’s a near thing, the contact so sudden and unexpected.

Frank laughs, and it’s nothing but amusement in that sound, nothing but fondness. “Now, I didn’t say _that_ ,” he growls, waiting for David to come back to the bed before pouncing.


End file.
